A Different Baptism
by GMTH
Summary: Based on Broken Vows, starring Tommy Lee Jones and Annette O'Toole. I always hated the ending because they don't actually hook up, so I wrote my own.


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Disclaimers: Not sure who they belong to, just know it ain't me. This story is a sequel of sorts to a film called "Broken Vows," starring Tommy Lee Jones and Annette O'Toole. I hated the ending, mostly because the two main characters don't actually hook up, so I wrote my own. 

Please don't sue me. You wouldn't be able to take my imagination anyway, and that's about all I have. 

Rating: PG-13 for some stuff at the very end. 

****

A DIFFERENT BAPTISM

Nim Fitzpatrick was having a lousy day. It was a hot July day in New York City and her third floor walk-up apartment was stifling. She had tied her shoulder-length hair in a neat ponytail that morning, but as she worked tendrils of it had escaped and now clung uncomfortably to the beads of sweat coating her neck. She was dressed as minimally as possible in a baggy T-shirt and cut-off shorts, but it was still too much. The air conditioner in her apartment had broken down three days earlier and the surly repairman she had called informed her it would take more than a week before he could get there to fix it.

"Worst heat wave we've had in years, lady," he barked when she started to protest. "You ain't the only person in New York without an air conditioner right now, ya know." The story had been the same with each of the repairmen she had called. So she had resigned herself to dealing with the heat as best she could until the unit was working again.

But even more oppressive than the heat was the heavy hand of her dark mood. At times, she feared the sadness and longing she felt would crush her under its tremendous weight. So missed Joe so much at times it took her breath away. It had progressed to such a point that now she even felt physically sick much of the time. Even though it had been almost a month since she had seen him, he had actually spent every waking moment with her, in her thoughts. Every morning when she first awoke, for a moment she caught the scent of him on the pillowcase next to her and rolled toward him happily. Then she remembered he was gone and the sadness and pain of his absence jolted her anew. But the joy of that forgetful, waking moment was enough to sustain her for the entire day.

She collapsed into her easy chair and fanned herself with an old copy of _The New Yorker_. "Damn," she whispered resignedly, turning her head slightly to regard her half-finished painting. She had been trying to paint him for weeks without much success. She was having a great deal of trouble matching the exact shade of brown for his eyes, and it seemed incredibly important to her to get it just right before she went on. In truth, she was deliberately stalling, taking as long as she could to complete the painting. She felt she had to be working on it when he came back. She had an irrational fear that if she finished the painting too soon, he'd have no reason to return.

She hadn't left the apartment for almost two weeks now, except for short trips to the small grocery store across the street. She had promised to give Joe some time to decide what he wanted, and she knew if she went out onto the street she would head straight for St. Timothy's to see if he was still there. If he was, she would not be able to bear it because it meant he had chosen the church over her. If he wasn't, she still would not be able to bear it because it meant he had chosen not to come to her. So she sat in her apartment and listened for a knock at the door, her heart racing each time the phone rang or she heard footsteps on the street outside. 

She looked up at the empty brandy bottle sitting on the middle of her mantelpiece. It was a souvenir of the night she and Joe had spent together, and she had saved it with the intention of using it in a sculpture. She looked at it often, and each time she did, she remembered the dreamy look in his eyes as he gazed at her that night. She was still grieving Emil's death and they were both more than a little drunk, and when she saw the reflection of the candlelight dancing in his eyes she was overwhelmed by her need. 

"Don't look at me that way," she begged.

"Surely it's all right to look," he had replied, and at that moment she knew what was about to happen between them had been preordained. They were both powerless to stop it. Some power greater than either of them -- Joe called it God -- had brought them together. She saw it with a sudden clarity. There was no point in denying it any longer. It had been decided long ago, and who was she to fight it?

So she had turned to him and taken his hand, studying it. In the glow of the candlelight and the brandy, it looked almost animalistic. It was a huge hand, more like a paw, really, and for a moment she was almost afraid of it. But then she smelled the sweet scent of the brandy on his breath and saw his lazy smile out of the corner of her eye. Almost without thinking, she leaned forward and kissed him.

For a moment, he accepted her kiss joyfully. But then even as she had begun to think even he had come to accept the inevitability of their passion, an almost palpable presence came between them and he withdrew. He drew back only slightly, but in her state of longing and fear, it seemed a mile. He was a priest again.

"What would you say if I did that to you?" he asked softly.

"I'd say your name," she had replied. "I've never said you name." And then she was kissing him again, and there truly was no turning back. She felt his hands on her, burning her back through her cotton T-shirt, and then his arms were around her. It was destined to happen, and only fools -- and the damned -- denied their destinies.

Now all she had left was the empty bottle. She put her head in her hand and began to cry, as she had so often in the past few weeks. As she wept, her mind returned to many of the moments they had shared. The way he looked the first time she had seen him that day in the sacristy, splendid in his white vestments, tying a cincture around his waist. The blazing look in his eye as he accused her of trying to seduce him. The look on his face on the steps of St. Timothy's as he helplessly confessed his feelings about her. And always, the last time she had seen him, waving and smiling at her on the station platform as her train pulled away. 

Her sobs subsided slowly and she sat morosely, enveloped in her thoughts. She stood up and moved back to her easel, half-heartedly picking up the brush. The sun was going down, but the heat in the apartment showed no signs of abating. Depressed, hot, nauseous and feeling defeated, she dropped the brush in the tray and flopped onto her bed. She slept, dreaming the pillow she clasped in her arms was Joe.

****

She awoke an hour or so later, still clutching the pillow, and as usual her feelings swelled for a moment until she remembered all she held was a collection of goose feathers.   


The room was dark, and still swelteringly hot. For the first time in hours, she realized she was hungry. Groggily, she sat up in bed and hunted for the phone. A pizza with lots of mushrooms would taste really good right now, she decided. She called and placed the order, then lay back on her bed to wait for it to be delivered, shuffling once more through her small mental library of special moments.

"This has to stop," she muttered to herself. I can't live the rest of my life this way. What if he _never_ comes back? I promised him I would let him choose. He must have chosen the church. This last thought made her eyes tear up again, but she also felt a new strength beginning to grow within her. She could live without him, she decided. Perhaps not happily, at least at first, but live she would. She had survived Emil's death, and that had been like a hammerblow. Of course, the demon inside her head reminded her, you had Joe to help you through that. And anyway, Joe's not dead, he's out there somewhere and has simply chosen God over you.

There was a tentative tap at the door. Rousing herself from her reverie, she called, "Just a minute!" and turned on the light so she could quickly find her purse. She opened the multitude of locks on her apartment door, trying to calculate the delivery boy's tip in her head.

When she opened the door, Joe was standing there, suitcase in hand. He looked weary, yet happy and relieved to see her again. He smiled at her wanly, then set his suitcase down at his feet and pulled her into his arms. She clung to him, tears filling her eyes.

"I've decided," he said simply.

They stood together in the doorway for a long time, embracing, rocking back and forth, holding each other, not speaking. Then he kissed her, gently at first, then harder and fiercer. Tears of joy and love cascaded down her face and she wanted to shout aloud even as she pressed her mouth on his. 

Footsteps echoed on the landing, and the approaching pizza delivery boy startled them by appearing suddenly at the top of the steps. Joe reared back violently, as though he had been caught doing something evil or illegal, a reaction which shocked and hurt her. _Don't take it personally_, she soothed herself, _he's just not used to **not** being a priest yet_. Joe shuffled uncomfortably, his head down, unable to get inside the apartment because the doorway was blocked by Nim and his suitcase.

The delivery boy handed her the pizza and waited for her payment with his hand outstretched. His mouth was pulled back in a knowing, adolescent sneer. He glanced at Joe and his eyes widened. "Hello, _Father_ McMahon," he sneered. 

Joe's head snapped up, a stricken expression on his face. "Hello, Jason," he replied, trying to smile and failing miserably. "I, uh, I am no longer at St. Timothy's.

Jason giggled and the color drained from Joe's face. "I can see that," the boy smirked. 

"Here," Nim said abruptly, shoving a wad of bills in the boy's hand. He turned and began walking down the stairs, looking at them over his shoulder. Nim took Joe's hand and pulled him inside the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

She wanted to ask him if he was all right, knowing how difficult that experience must have been for him. She wanted to ask him about every detail of his life during the time they had been apart. There were a million things they had to say to one another, but that could wait. For now, she stood close to him, clasping his hands and looking up into his face. He gazed down at her, his stricken expression slowly melting into a gentle, loving look. She touched his hair, then wiped a trickling bead of sweat from his neck. Simple, gentle touches, but immediately they were both inflamed. He smiled broadly, then reached for her and hoisted her up in his arms. Laughing, he carried her to the bed and set her down, then crawled up on top of her on his hands and knees like the animal he was about to become. 

He covered her face and neck with burning kisses while she struggled to unbutton his shirt. Soon it lay in a heap on the floor, and she was stroking his strongly muscled chest as she had done so often in her dreams. The room was still oppressively hot, but neither of them took notice of it any longer. From time to time, small beads of sweat would drip from his face onto her body, and she reveled in it, viewing it as a different sort of baptism. 

"My God," he whispered between kisses, "I love you. I can't believe I stayed away so long." 


End file.
